This morning I read a review of a Frank O'Hara compilation. I am awful tired of the top 10 poets and the deconstruction of their lives/work/drinking habits, etc. There are, apparently, no decent women except for the usual Bishop or Emily footnote. Women do better if we are a. crazy, b. suicidal, c. "write like a man (whatever that means), or d. some combination of the above.
And don't get me started about poetry readings, the small local kind. It is discouraging.
Ok, moving on. "The morning is bright and clear (and hot as hell)". We are in a bi-polar weather pattern; cold, expecting snow or 95 degrees. The lettuce doesn't have the good sense to bolt. Not yet anyway.
4 comments:
expecting snow or 95 degrees
hahahaha you made me snork so loud that The Evil Orlando bolted out from under my desk like a cat on fire. Bad simile, but you know what I mean. And please, write about the local reading scene, please, please? I need some lightning today.
love,
Rebecca
ps. Maybe I meant lightening like what goes in my hair, not lightning, which travels through my left eyeball and out my right great toe during a thunderstorm and strikes me dead right on the path at Green Lake. (This actually happened to a woman when I lived across the street from the lake.)
omg-a female divining rod, how static electricity!
And Kizer. Don't forget about Kizer. She's like a roll, but without the "i."
Dana my darling-how lovely to hear from you and I peeked at your blog. Gonna try that experiment if I can figure it out.
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